the unwritten poem

This clean, new slate every sonneteer long for   The paralysis of perfection lingering on the page with every stroke and turn  Where to begin? Easy, the mirror refracts my thoughts, looking down, seeing that blank page, searching for something, anything.   The chapter draining me of all artistic creation and freedom, pen stationary, hovering expertly as it had been time and time before, a real professional.   Every millennium that passes wrinkles my skin, shivers my bones, though it's just a momentary civil war between man and nature.   We are all but one, we are one and the same, yet so distant, growing further and further away from normality.   I know, I hear, I see. I long to fulfill my purpose, the reason I am sitting at this empty table in the first place. This empty bed, this empty room slowly filling to the brim with words I need to express,  Yet the page remains empty.   I could transcribe it from the top of my head, but the words get caught in my throat, stuck at the roof of my mouth, what a surprise.   To passersby, pedestrians, peers, people. The page is anything but worthy, so many eons go by. Finally beginning, though way too late. Dark ink clotted in the head of my pen.